


relief after absence

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [16]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t trust me,” Jake says.</p><p>“I don’t need to trust you to --” David starts, doesn’t finish his sentence. To fuck. He didn’t trust Jake when they first did, he didn’t <i>like</i> Jake when they first did. Both came later. Jake’s lost his trust, but David still likes him. He resents him a little for it.</p><p>Jake winces. “Okay, I deserve that,” Jake says, though it’s not an insult, what David’s saying, just a statement of fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	relief after absence

David has time to rethink inviting Jake over at least fifteen times on the cab ride back to his apartment. He could tell Jake he changed his mind, he knows that, knows Jake probably wouldn’t even be mad, but that’s cowardice again, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to.

They don’t say much, which isn’t uncommon. Jake can talk more than almost anyone David knows, but he can be quiet, too, and he is right now, holding himself far enough from David that they aren’t touching, but close enough that if David reached out, just a little, they would be. He doesn’t, keeps his eyes on the scenery they pass, familiar, and ignores the heat of Jake the best he can, because they’re still in public, technically. A story about Chapman and Lourdes in a cab somewhere would draw an amused eyebrow from most outlets, but if there was a story at all, that’s all it would be.

David isn’t stupid. Jake’s sexuality is going to hit the media eventually, unless the league collectively keeps its mouth shut, and with people like Benson in it, David doesn’t exactly have faith that will happen. When news of Jake breaks, David needs to be as far as possible from the fallout.

He firmly ignores the fact that as of this morning, he was a lot further away from the fallout than he is right now. Right now he’s practically brushing elbows with it. David doesn’t like taking risks, and when he does, they’re calculated, but this isn’t calculated, has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the fact that when Jake started rambling about the Pistons, endlessly optimistic about a team that ranks in the NBA around where the Panthers do in the NHL, instead of the typical bemusement with his misplaced faith, all David felt was relief after absence.

He wonders if Jake thinks about him like that, optimistic in the face of something lacking, having full faith in something that hasn’t earned it, doesn’t deserve it.

David’s mouth twists, and Jake reaches out, fingers brushing David’s wrist like he can sense the texture of David’s thoughts. David lets it linger for a second before he pulls his arm away, settles his hands, clasped, in his lap.

David pays the cab driver when he pulls in front of David’s building, tips well, taking his time rummaging through his wallet while Jake waits on the sidewalk. Eventually there’s no more stalling to be done unless he keeps adding to the tip one dollar bill at a time. He gets out, squares his chin at Jake, who makes a ‘one second’ hand gesture at the cab driver.

“You want me to go?” Jake asks, canny. David thinks of him as stupid more often than he should, because there are moments like this, when he seems to know what David’s thinking without David saying a word. He doesn’t understand it, and it’s scary to think that’s something other people could do. It’s uncomfortable enough that Jake can.

“No,” David says, immediately, but Jake stays still, waiting for something. David fully considers the question for a minute, logic rather than knee-jerk reaction.

It’s a bad idea.

“No,” he repeats.

“Okay,” Jake says, then waves a hand in farewell at the driver, who takes off, follows David through the familiar route to his door, though he’s been there enough that he could lead, if he wanted. He does that a lot, lets David lead the way, make the decisions; where to go, when to go, whether to go. David had never really thought about it before.

He stands close, but not suffocating, when David unlocks the door, lets him in. Takes off his shoes in the foyer, though David knows he doesn’t do that at home, either his own apartment or his parents’ house. Lines his dress shoes up with David’s boots, his sneakers, his own dress shoes, when he toes them off.

“Want to watch Vancouver kick the Rangers’ asses?” Jake asks, once they’ve shucked their outer layers, Jake down to his dress shirt, tie loose around his throat. He probably loosened it the moment he got out of Nassau. It’s what David pulls him in with, silk bruising under his fingers, Jake leaning down enough that David doesn’t have to reach in order to kiss his mouth, the line of his jaw, stubble scratching David’s lips. David knows from experience that if he’s not careful, he’ll get stubble burn, and it’s easy enough to dismiss as a rash, but it leaves his lips feeling raw, used.

“David,” Jake says, mouth almost brushing David’s ear, breath hot against his skin. “Stop.”

David pulls himself back. Wrenches himself back, more accurately, though Jake keeps him from getting as far away as he wants to go, hands tight on David’s shoulders.

“We really need to talk,” Jake says.

“I don’t want to,” David says, and his voice sounds sulky even to his own ears.

“You don’t trust me,” Jake says.

“I don’t need to trust you to --” David starts, doesn’t finish his sentence. To fuck. He didn’t trust Jake when they first did, he didn’t _like_ Jake when they first did. Both came later. Jake’s lost his trust, but David still likes him. He resents him a little for it.

Jake winces. “Okay, I deserve that,” Jake says, though it’s not an insult, what David’s saying, just a statement of fact. Sex doesn’t require trust – if it did, he’s pretty sure there’d be a lot less one night stands.

“Can’t we just -- ” David starts, reaches a hand up. Jake lets go of his shoulder to catch it, presses a kiss to the palm of his hand.

“Okay,” Jake says, his lips brushing David’s palm when he speaks. “Sure.”

It’s not exactly a glowing endorsement from someone who has a tendency to deem anything halfway decent ‘awesome’, but David’s selfish, he’s been told that enough. Jake’s selfish on the ice, takes every shot even if a pass would be better strategy, like it doesn’t even occur to him not to shoot. Any passes that tally in his point total are incidental. David isn’t like that, more assists than goals, a playmaker, and it might not be as flashy as the stuff Jake does, but it’s better strategy. He’s unselfish, on the ice, but off the ice the word gets thrown at him. Even Eisler, one snappish day, accused him of it, when David bowed out of some ridiculous scheme of his, his typically cheerful face strangely pinched.

So maybe David’s as selfish off the ice as Jake is on it, he doesn’t know. David does know he wants him, and ‘okay, sure’ aren’t effusive, but they aren’t repudiations either. Pulls Jake back in, and Jake goes in easy, letting go of David’s wrist and meeting his mouth again, hand coming up to thread through David’s hair. It’s chaste until it isn’t, until David’s got his mouth on Jake’s throat and Jake’s got one hand fisted in David’s hair, the other tugging David’s dress shirt out of his belt, flattening against the small of his back, pulling him closer until they’re flush, Jake half-hard against David’s hip.

“Fuck I missed this,” Jake says, and David doesn’t say anything, but then, he doesn’t think Jake expects him to. David’s quiet in bed, and Jake teases him about it, says he’s on a mission to get David to shout, which he hasn’t succeeded at, or speak more than necessary direction, which he occasionally has. David isn’t entirely sure what he’s referring to, anyway, whether it’s sex, since the way Jake tells it he hasn’t been having it, or David, or sex with David. Whichever it is, David feels the same, but saying so would be more of an admission than he’s comfortable with.

Jake starts out almost sweet, the way he’d be when they had days off, plenty of time to waste, at least in Jake’s view. He probably wouldn’t say ‘waste’, however. He gentles every kiss, until it’s just a chaste brush of lips, fingers blindly undoing buttons, first David’s shirt, then his own, shrugging it off so it hits the floor.

“Go fold it, I know you want to,” Jake murmurs against David’s mouth, and David can feel him smiling.

David picks Jake’s shirt up off the floor, folds it, then his own, setting them on his bureau. Takes off his pants while he’s at it, and Jake’s got the same idea, so it’s just Jake mutely handing David his clothes so David can set them down, like they’re just getting ready for bed, like David will change into his pyjamas, and Jake strip to his boxers, and they’ll watch some dumb action movie in bed, which Jake will fall asleep in front of, and David will watch through the end whether he likes the movie or not, because unless he watches the entirety, there was no point to the endeavour.

It’s fine to be nostalgic for Toronto, but he shouldn’t _want_ it like he does right now, startlingly intense. Toronto is, likely as not, a waste of time, inefficient as a training system, and David would be better served staying in New York with a trainer who knows him well, knows how to make his body do the things he wants it to do. Still, he wants it. It isn’t logical, but neither is anything about Jake.

David feels shy when he’s stripped to his skin, the way he always does outside the context of the dressing room, where there’s a silent agreement between parties not to look. It’s easier when Jake kisses him, shuts his eyes like he always does when kissing, and David disappears from his vision. Easy to let Jake take the lead, nudge David toward bed, palm flat against the small of his back, a finger tracing the shell of David’s ear until David shivers and goes.

It’s slow, and it’s sweet, the definition of something David doesn’t want to even think of, let alone say, so David moves the pace up, something Jake protests about half-heartedly, his chest vibrating beneath David’s mouth with every syllable, and then not at all when David takes him into his mouth.

Blowjobs have never been slow and sweet. Jake takes his time with it, sometimes, until David is tempted to knee him in the head, but the first time David did it he treated it like a contest, his mission to make Jake come fast and hard, and he never really stopped. He’s gotten better, since, knows Jake’s body, the minute flutter of the muscles in his thighs, the way his balls are sensitive enough that David has to be careful, and that they go tight when he’s close. That rubbing his thumb under the head will make every muscle in his body clench, and that doing it with his tongue does the same but somehow more. David knows Jake’s body, is not just better than he was, but good at it, he thinks, and Jake is vocally in agreement. There’s never anything sweet about it.

David doesn’t take his time with it, doesn’t make it easy, and Jake’s strung tight with tension before long, hands fitful on David’s neck, his shoulders, careful to avoid his hair. When Jake comes, David pulls off too early, and the last spurt ends up on his lips, his chin. Jake makes a pained sound in his direction, and David swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Gimme a sec, I’m dead,” Jake mumbles when David crawls up the bed. “Quit looking smug.” His eyes aren’t even open.

“I’m not looking smug,” David protests.

Jake opens his eyes, squints at him. “Yes you are,” he says.

David doesn’t even know what smug looks like, unless it’s Jake ten minutes later, David breathlessly staring at the ceiling before he looks down and meets Jake’s eyes. Jake pats his hip like ‘good job’, and David decides he’s not going to be offended by it, catches his breath with Jake pressed against him, on his stomach, his arm a loose circle around David’s waist

“You want a wash cloth?” David asks, and Jake waves a hand lazily at him. David takes a quick shower, just enough to clean up, pads back into his bedroom in his pyjamas, hair dripping, despite the scrub he gave it with a towel, a drop of water rolling ticklish down his cheek, his neck, until he impatiently brushes it away.

Jake’s asleep, and David is tempted, so tempted, to just let him stay there, face buried in David’s pillow, the curve of his spine more pronounced now than it is during the summer. He’s lost at least ten pounds. He’s got a bruise on his ribs the size of David’s fist, faded to a sickly green, and David curves his hand over it, careful, hides it under his palm. Jake doesn’t stir.

Jake’s got curfew, and the responsibility of captain to be an example to the team. Missing curfew isn’t a good example, and it’s not inconspicuous either, not when the room knows about his – proclivities, when the asinine pinky swear circle, or whatever Forster dubbed it, knows about  
David specifically, would put the pieces together in a single breath.

David wants him to stay, but he’s used to compromise. Even if Jake would insist strenuously that he _wanted_ to stay -- and he would insist that, he _has_ \-- it’s not an acceptable risk for either of them. David doesn’t know if the rest is: he suspects Dave would have some choice words about whether anything they’re doing is acceptable, and David wouldn’t disagree, but there’s no reason to be stupid about it. More stupid about it.

David takes his hand away from the bruise, watches it bloom again, yellow around the edges, old, probably no longer painful, no matter how ugly it looks. From an elbow, or the butt of a stick, David doesn’t know.

He touches Jake’s shoulder again, unmarred except scattered freckles. Shakes him, gentle enough not to startle, hard enough to wake him. It’s strange, knowing the exact force you need to affect someone. “Jake,” he says, and when Jake mumbles nonsense into the pillow. “Come on, you have curfew.”

“Don’t care,” Jake mumbles, and the only reason David recognises the words is because Jake says them every time.

This is where David says something like, ‘you’re the captain’, or ‘you want to be scratched?’, as if anyone would scratch Jake; he’d look apologetic and they’d probably brush it off. Things like that happen for him.

He doesn’t, this time. This time he says, “You have to go,” quiet, and Jake groans but sits up.

David watches him get dressed. He leave his dress shirt unbuttoned over his undershirt, tucks his tie into his pants pocket, so David doesn’t feel too underdressed, even in pyjama bottoms and an old Juniors t-shirt, too tight in the arms, the logo on his chest cracked from the dryer.

Jake reaches out, curves his hand over David’s cheek, and David’s tempted to just lean into it, close his eyes. Let Jake stay the night, curfew or not, and wake up next to him, the way he did most mornings in Toronto, Jake always groaning piteously at the alarm, which he said David set too early, but still better at mornings than David, fully awake as soon as he sat up in bed. Didn’t seem to need the coffee he drank in the morning.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” David says quietly. This meaning tonight, but also in general, though it was too late to control that.

“I won’t,” Jake says. “I promise.”

It didn’t mean as much as it might have before. Promises are words. David’s been promised a lot of things. They’ll be there the next game, they promise. They’ll go along to Lake Placid, Rochester, Toronto, London, Burlington. The Panthers are going to pick him, his stats are too good to ignore.

Reality has a tendency to intervene.

“I promise,” Jake repeats, and David doesn’t really believe him.


End file.
